History Repeats Itself
by hydranoid
Summary: The failure of the first world war to manifest itself results in an Earth that still clings to a colonial heritage dotted with empires as far as the eye can see. Can the Citadel see beyond the thinly-veiled songs of humility and civility to realise just how deep the tensions run beneath Earth's empires?
1. When you contact an alien civilisation

Apparently, sleep is now outlawed. At least, that's what Varr believed. First those damned Batarian teenagers set off the fire-hazard alarm near his complex, and now physically repulsive static was being broadcast all over the place. The echo drowned out the traditionally serene sounds of his section of the wards and amplified the screams coming from his balcony. From what he could guess, a bunch of Qurians hacked some of the nearby complex broadcasts. It happened before. As a result, the lemmings decided to come out of hibernation to further this annoyance with their incessant chattering. As he fumbled around in his bed, pilling swaths of pillows over his ears to halt the barrage, he finally gave up. He had even turned off his omnitool just to get a good night's worth of sleep for goodness sake. With a click something lit up the darkened room and he walked, eyes half-closed, to the balcony.

"FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS PURE AND HOLY, PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO SLEEP!"

He found, unsurprisingly, a large group of people like him, mostly clad in their nightwear, staring at the broadcast screen. Now, however, he was the centre of attention, with everyone awkwardly eying at him. This section of the wards was very pronounced in terms of flora. Various trees and plants indigenous to Palaven were planted nearby. It gave Varr the excellent feeling of being home without having to deal with the Turians at home. This section was basically a large condominium, a fortress against the red tape of the presidium and the pedestrianism of the lower wards. As such, the houses seemed like one large semi-circular building, that curved around a fountain and a large screen in the centre of a building marked: "INFORMATION OFFICE"

"There's been some issue with the comm-buoy network. We think it might be some sentient life trying to communicate." Answered a rather rugged Turian a few feet below him, seemingly kind enough to inform him of the issue.

"I beg your pardon?" Varr answered.

"Come down and have a look for yourself, we've been getting on and off feed."

Not wanting to miss out on a lifetime event, Varr immediately got dressed and dropped down to see what everything was about. As exciting as this was, the reason he picked this ward location was because it was one of the few places in the Citadel that simulated Palaven day-night cycles. Couldn't aliens have tried to communicate when people weren't trying to sleep?

As he exited the elevator, the incomprehensible cluster of sounds began to get clearer and clearer. Much of the muffled and echoed feed was growing increasingly focused.

The static was slowly coming to a halt, and the static-ridden visual was that of a Garden planet. He turned his gaze towards the C-SEC officer whom he strategically placed himself near.

"So officer, aliens just managed to hack C-SEC broadcasting from the outside?" Questioned Varr.

"No, actually. A bunch of tech-boys up in the Networks noticed some odd feed. It seems to be coming from a nearby relay, but figuring which one would take a while. Until then, they needed something large enough to pick up the minute radio-waves. So they kinda used the Citadel Emergency Broadcast System as a giant receiver"

"The Council's fine with using the Citadel to pick up alien radio waves?"

"It was the Council's idea. For all we know this could be a declaration of war. Too tempting to resist."

Suddenly, a slightly muffled voice spoke out. Varr wasn't sure what to make of the language. It just sounded like noise to him. Incredibly annoying, sleep-depriving noise.

 _"_ _Et maintenant, nous chanterons notre hymne nationale. Levez-vous pour La Marseillaise"_

"This is it, we're finally getting a clear feed." Announced the officer.

Admittedly what happened next was slightly surprising. Instead of potential samples of spaceships, dreadnoughts, explosives, images from their homeworld, a display of force or religious ideology, it was a song. Definitely should not have warranted much of a surprise, but the sleep-routine of most people on in this part of the Citadel made much of the crowd a bit unresponsive and illogical.

The broadcast showed an alien species. Initially, people thought it was an Asari, with some muttering grunts of disbelief thinking it some prank from those troublesome Thessians. However, upon further inspection, the hair on top of their head and the lack of breasts for other members of the species quickly dismissed that theory. It seemed that there were two genders with noticeable physical and biological differences. And their skin color seemed to be comparatively light. Sadly the broadcast was Black and White, so much of the traditional visual observations were rendered impossible. The movie showed a large group of aliens surrounded by a scenic background of fountains, local fauna and a large tower-based structure. They were sitting down holding odd instruments. Further observation indicated that the instruments were most likely traditional indigenous musical ones, as they seemed to lack any form of electrical technology. These assumptions were quickly confirmed when the strange objects began producing harmonized sounds.

Of the black and white feed, the footage began circling around the main singer, revealing a sprawling city dotted by a large tower. Admittedly, Varr had no clue what to think of the music. It reminded him of the Palavan military marches with a much more..inspirational attitude to it. It had more of an 'UMPH' factor. Long dragged out words said with ferocious tenacity from how he saw it. The alien singing was commanding, almost as if she's daring the listeners to do something. A barrage of the other non-Asari looking gender created a polyphonic harmony. Though, this analysis was all relative. Universal Musical Theory, although excellent, was not perfect. It required in-depth knowledge of multiple factors including alien hearing capabilities, planetary windspeed, evolutionary history etc..However, from a Turian perspective, loud dragged out sounds generally indicated a distress call or a rally call against prey or competing predators. Usually, most species with rallying calls also use them to double as a hymn of victory. So if he had to guess, based on countless assumption, they were either proclaiming war, or bragging. Though, again, 'loud' was subjective. The only thing he thought could be learned directly from these aliens was their phonology.

Yellow subtitles dotted the black and white screen. Simple V.I arithmetic should explain which sounds correspond to what symbol. Boy, though, their symbols were weird. Each letter was separated from one another, nothing connecting them together. Much of their letters were also dotted with odd accents like in Thessian. Which reminded him..shouldn't the Council have alerted him about the situation by now? His research might've been incredibly handy in analyzing the alien language and musical capabilities-Oh shit..the omnitool's off.

On Earth, however, celebrations dotted the whole of the French Union. Rallying calls and flags were waved by millions in the streets of Paris, Algiers, Marseille, and countless other cities.

"Who would've thought our new garden world would be handed on Bastille day? It's almost too good to be true."

"Yes, viceroy. I have to admit, I think the Union may have pulled some strings to hurry up the negotiations."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Well, those Brits insist on trading rights near Prosperite, remember? It's a bit odd that we've begun allowing British commerce ships near the system the second they gave up claim to Kepler-45e."

"You give our fair country too little credit, sub-viceroy."

"And you give it too much."

The two men, both respectable frenchmen, were raising their wine glasses in a toast. The room, decorated in a 19th century fashion, a style which became quite popular lately, had become somewhat of a refuge for the two politicians. It was simply a sanctuary from the constant pestering of the daily concerns of Antaniavaro. Although, from the window, the ruckus of waving flags and fireworks could clearly be noticed. Because of this, the room was very dimly let, letting in only a reddish hue of light which was obscured by the large velvet curtains covering the overt display of nationalism taking place in the government palace grounds.

"In any case, have you heard about that old Mirielle Mathieu's recording of the national anthem? They found a digital copy and are broadcasting it across half the galaxy to celebrate."

"Excellent, we'll invite aliens to attack us and a thousand years from now children will recite Mirielle Mathieu as the cause for an interstellar war." Replied the viceroy. He was a short, brown-haired, pudgy man, dressed in the traditional French Foreign Legion attire with countless medals decorating him. The sub-viceroy, on the other hand, was a bit taller, much younger, and with a constant curious tint in his eyes. "Frankly I thought the destruction of civilisation would come from Piaf or Montand"

"There's no need to be _that_ pessimistic." Replied the sub-viceroy "Either way, they need to have a spaceship the size of Algeria to pick up any of our signals.

"Though, who said that wasn't possible?"

"I believe Sir Isaac Newton?"

"He's been proven wrong before."

"Ah, right. The relays. Speaking of which, do you have any plans tomorrow? Care to drop me off at the spaceport?"

"Clovis, I wouldn't miss it for the world! After you're gone perhaps I'll get some peace and quiet."

"Ah yes, because you're quite the quiet man yourself?"

As the French celebrated their infamous Bastille Day, much of the Citadel was in a state of alarm. News programs quickly proclaimed something along the lines of: "ALIENS CONTACT CITADEL", or "CITADEL RECEIVES ALIEN FEED". The more imaginative articles proudly noted it to be a Prothean attempt at communication, interviewing several 'experts' in the process. The Citadel Council had convened in their usual cryptic fashion in a dark, dimly lit room as holograms. Varr was hardly pleased.

"Mr. Varr, your conclusion?"

"As I've explained in my report, it's most likely a rallying call. Their ear-stucture and the obvious lack of heavy winds on that planet, if it is their homeworld, indicates that. They have eyes on the fronts of their head, and, such, evolutionarily they're obviously predators or had predatory origins, so that makes the analysis all the more likely. Much of their language would be impossible to decipher, but we can make rather decent progress with certain word structures and patterns. Though it'd effectively be impossible to figure out what they mean without more data. I've finished the sound system and linked each one to their corresponding character. But, again, the 'rallying call' analysis is based on countless assumptions. For all we know this could be a mating ritual. In which case, you might want to ask an Asari for advice."

"Mr. Varr! That's in extremely bad taste!" Yelled out the Asari Councillor.

"I'm sorry. I haven't gotten much sleep the past week. Please accept my apologies."

"Which reminds me, why haven't you been responding to our messages? We had become worried that you were missing the entire event." Asked the Salarian.

"As I said, I've been having sleep trouble. I shut down my omnitool. It was my day off, after all. You guys rarely ever call and when you do it's such a pleasure."

"You know, Turians years younger than you are enlisting in the military to fight day and night for your precious sleep cycles. Just because you managed to land a cushy job far from anything actually important doesn't mean you can slack off. It's a disgrace to our entire race."

"Oh if it's not that important I guess I'll be getting back to sleep."

Varr afterwards cut off connections. Doing something like that to the Council, especially to a Turian Primarch, could've been grounds for execution back on Palaven. Thankfully, however, his position as head of the linguistics and musical branch of the Citadel could probably save him from a potential lethal injection. Though, from what he guessed, the Primarch would've loved to see his corpse sent to a Star. Turians didn't respond well when another Turian, particularly one of peak fighting age such as Varr, managed to get an excuse out of obligatory military service. What made it even worse is that whilst most Turians who get these excuses have physical limitations, it was his Citadel internship when he turned of minimum fighting age that gave him legal, but according to everyone he knew not moral, grounds to avoid conscription.

In any case, Varr insisted on replaying the recordings of that song. It was rough and not exactly the best recording in the Citadel, but it was still fascinating. As much as he loathed military music, this one was different. There was a sense of not just the pride most Turian music profess, but one of an impending war. Turian music generally concentrated on the pleasurable aspects of conflict: the victory. It was a misnomer to call Turian military music 'marches' per se, they were more of a celebratory hymn, as indicated by a colourful usage of wind and string instruments at the same time, producing what seemed to be more of something you'd listen to at a party rather than a piece you'd march off to war with. As a result of this, very few of Palaven-based songs professed the sort of war march call present in this alien piece. If he had to compare it to anything he'd say it had distinctly Salarian roots with an unidentifiable element that was somewhat of a mixture of Turian and Batarian military songs. The Salarian input can obviously be deduced from the emphasis on mathematical harmony. Anything written on sheet music from Palaven was messy as hell. This one was 'clean', if that makes any sense.

 _"_ _..Qu'un sang impur, abreuve nos sillon!"_

If only he figured out what it meant..

"Excuse me?" A voice called.

"Ah, Mr. Vakarian, come in." Immediately after Varr's response, the same armored Turian from last night came in. "Thanks for seeing me."

"It's no problem, sir."

"Firstly let me say sorry for yesterday's outburst. It's been a stressful week." Admitted Var.

"It's really no problem. You should've seen that Asari matriarch next door, she nearly threw her Sofa outside." They both laughed slightly at that. Varr had a colorful assortment of neighbours that seemed to have come directly out of a mental institution. "So what did you need?"

"Well, I've come to request your formal C-SEC assistance. I've asked about you and, well, we've isolated the relay that emanated the alien signal. We're escorting a First Contact team there."

"Because my anti-matter beam eyes will obviously help against enemy dreadnoughts?"

"You really expect a sour first contact?"

"Well, no I didn't mean that exactly. Just wondering why me particularly?"

"When I met you last night you seemed..ehh…like a nice person. Most C-SEC officers would taser me everytime I complain. It was nice to see some decency."

"It's no big deal. But still doesn't really make sense to bring me along. I don't think those things are going to be pacified by niceness."

"Well, we're hoping talking first then shooting. Or, preferably, no shooting at all. I needed someone to accompany me from C-SEC."

"Don't you have half a fleet escorting you?"

"Well..umm.." Varr grumbled a bit. "It's politics, you know? The Council would probably want C-SEC, preferably one who saw the live-feed, to come along."

"With all due respect, Mr. Varr, half the Citadel saw it. I believe some of the boys on Patrol thought some Thessians had hacked Asari pornography into the Broadcast system."

"Yes, I am well familiar with the crudeness of some of C-SEC's patrol officers which is exactly my point. Unless we meet a race of deviants it'll most likely spark an incident. Imagine having it written down in the history books that a war started because of Asari pornography."

"Though, you've barely known me. I'm sure a high-ranking Citadel member needs a high ranking officers, not unlike myself." Garrus coughed a bit on that last part, adding it in with false subtlety, "but is there anything you expect me to do personally that no one else can?"

Varr was fidgeting around at this point to the point of almost falling off his chair. "Do you have any issues with going?"

"Well, no, I'd be excited but-"

"Then it's set!" Interrupted Varr, jubilantly raising his hand up in the air. "I'll have someone send the relevant information to your omni-mail by today." He stood up, forcing Garrus by nature to do the same. Quickly, he walked Garrus outside before the Turian could say anything and effectively shoved him outside, locking the door before hastily mouthing out a "Thank you!".

Varr had afterwards spent the next few hours packing. Almost every article of clothing, musical recording, or antique portable artefacts were stuffed inside a case almost twice height of a Krogan. Admittedly, such massive amount of packing probably wasn't warranted but he had spent far more time than needed picking up and putting back clothes and objects that it seemed far less time-consuming to simply stuff everything in an oversized suitcase and ship it to the space-port.

Unlike most people who get sent on a secret mission, Varr was almost acting as if he's going on vacation. This first contact mission was only eluded to in certain reports. However, it was basically kept top secret. The council took first contact very seriously. So much so that STG officers had to be on the ship. Additionally, the council had forwarded an email to him, demanding the song be played as an overture to peace to this new race once contact was made with the relay it was transmitted from. Relay 314, as it was called. Admittedly, it did seem logical, but Varr had a bad feeling about it.

" _Allons enfant de la patrie, le jour de gloire est arrive!"_

Of course, within this elusive alien planet which the Citadel was destined to make contact with, who would've believed that the response, instead of jubilation, would be: "What the hell are French ships doing here?!"


	2. When mother hands you a gun

Varr hated going outside the Citadel. Admittedly, he had enjoyed various expeditions and work-related assignments off-world in Thessia and various worlds, but it was primary the hassle he had to go through at the C-SEC spaceport that discouraged him from leaving the warm, safe embrace of the wards. Nevertheless, the spaceport was very mundane in its design. Metallic sheen without a single shred of plant-life covered the entire area. It was like being in a hospital except you leave more upset than you had come in.

"Darling?"

"Mother?" Varr approached a Turian woman, dressed rather intelligently in proper military attire. She had been waiting for the young man to deign to walk to the items control office where she had strategically positioned herself, meanwhile avoiding the civilians passing by.

Varr's arduous walk was repaid with a kiss and an embrace from this military lady.

"I assume father is still upset?"

"Oh ignore him. He likes to make a big fuss. He'll snap out of it soon." She said non-chalantly, buttoning up the undone top button on Varr's elegant and most likely abnormally expensive Citadel designed outfit.

"I don't think so, to be honest. He's been mad for over a month now."

"Well, can you blame him? He played along when you took that internship, but once it's over he expected you to head to the military. No one thought you'd continue with this line of work."

"Mother-" Varr interjected. The military woman was now inspecting her son by circling around him, like a hawk observing its prey. In this case, however, it was merely a strand of loose fabric that that she attacked.

"I know, I know. Still, you would've made an excellent pilot. It's such a shame you didn't join."

"You overestimate me. You know I was the worse in my self-defence and piloting classes in school. I prefer finer things"

"Even so, you looked good in the outfit."

"I crashed the simulator. Twice."

"But the outfit is all that matters! Imagine how many good-looking suitors you'd be able to attract with such a dignified pilots' uniform!"

"Mother, I don't want to endanger anyone's life. _My_ crew or anyone else's." That emphasis on 'my' alone made the woman stop in her circular tracks and ponder that statement. Indeed, there were so few Turians who could match her son in crashing spaceships. It almost seemed as if he had a knack for it. A common joke between the two was that the only use the Turian military could find for him was if he was sent to work for the enemy. He'd crash their fleet in a day.

"Sometimes killing people is justified. Have you seen what those slavers did on the Athame Nova?"

"Even so, I'd prefer the civil sector."

The woman looked down, slightly saddened, yet somewhat chuckling at the same time.

"You were born to the wrong species."

Varr sighed, and decided to steer the conversation elsewhere

"I guess you're aware of what we're going to do today?"

A small chuckled escaped from the Turians' mouth. "Of course. You think any ship can be deployed without me knowing about it?" As the laughter wore off, the mother subtly replaced her friendly demeanour with a much more solemn one.

"Listen. Last time we made contact with a species they massacred the first contact teams. This time it seems to be different, considering these aliens are advanced enough to utilise mass effect technology. However, just in case.." She quietly handed him a pistol, much to Varr's panic. The fact that she was shifting her eyes left and right in a manner reminiscent of something a criminal smuggler would do did not assist in easing his nerves.

"You're allowed to take a weapon as a Citadel associate. However, this fires specialised rounds. It's not exactly legal in Citadel space."

"Then why're you giving me this?!" Whispered Varr, ensuring that his need for secrecy did not triumph over his anger at the sheer idiocy of this situation.

"Because you're not going to be in Citadel space now, are you?" Much to Varr's dismay, his mother winked at him, giving him a kiss.

"I have to leave. Promise me you'll be careful, ok? Whatever happens, stay abroad the dreadnought. It won't be shot down. At least, not without giving the civilians ample time to escape."

"You're making it sound as if I'm going to war!" Varr angrily replied, stuffing the weapon inside his auxiliary suitcase.

"Don't worry, this is just precaution." As she was walking away, the woman turned back, offering one final piece of advice.

"You know, maybe you can rent a pilots' outfit?"

"Goodbye, Mother!"

As he was frantically waving, a voice could be heard nearby: "Atten-hut!" Varr didn't need to look behind him. Rather he just mentally scowled at the soldiers nearby.

At least he had time to kill. That was a rather unusual phrase. 'Killing time'. If anything, time was just another thing these people excelled at murdering. Varr saw countless ships skipping past entire miles of space in a flash. Yet, despite these advances, he could not avoid feeling that this entire civilisation is a joke. Unnumbered people were shipped off to some random discrete location to fight in some war whom they can barely remember who started it. "Killing time" indeed. Those soldiers didn't have much of it left. He'd love to have more time. However, like everything else, it was murdered by a group of thugs. Whatever little, pure things in life that had been left to care for were lined up against the wall and shot for treason. Ages ago, somewhere, someone threw a grenade at a red balloon and ever since then that had become the precedent for the Turian race.

"Sir? I've been asked to escort you"

He turned to see one of the members of the Batarian military gesturing to head to the elevator near the information stand he was at. The Citadel was indeed a large place, and this was simply the main port entrance. There were multiple levels of hangars that took hours to get to. There was something off, though. Despite the fact that this was a council delegation, each member was permitted to sent an envoy from any sector to assist C-SEC. Most races, of course barring the Asari, had sent military generals in order to assess the militaristic potential of this new race. The Batarians should've been no exception. However, it's not often they're invited for any Citadel-sponsored shindig. Actually, it's even less common they accept.

"So where you from?" Questioned Varr.

"Kar'shan. You?"

"Palaven." It seemed as if this man was reluctant to talk. Perhaps out of being tired or his own dislike for Varr as a Turian. However, the self-imposed siege by the Batarian government on its own people was becoming more pronounced and easy to notice. No one in the Citadel leaves the port without going through at least two hours of elevator rides. If he's lucky, which he's not, this could be over in a few minutes. However, if there's a problem then not talking would result in insanity from the unbearably long waiting period. It was odd, despite the Asari being infamous for being the diplomatic branch of the Citadel, it was Turians who could never keep their mouth shut.

"Forgive me, but I didn't think the Batarian government was participating."

"Well, it was a Batarian convoy that first caught the single before warning the council. I guess it was the least they can do." The man's foot was moving erratically. It was obvious that he grew tired of waiting for the elevator to cross what seemed to be kilometres to arrive at the official Citadel hanging bay. Still, he was beginning to wise up. Varr believed the Batarian is starting to realise the psychological upsides of talking.

"So, Turian, you're not from the military?"

"No, civilian."

"How old are you?"

"About 23 galactic standard."

There was a period of silence before Varr managed to figure out what he meant.

"I didn't get conscripted."

"Oh. What's your illness?" Var looked around, carefully taking in the sights. Perhaps talking was not his brightest idea. He then observed a Krogan child with a stick covered in pyjack meat, a rather popular appetiser in the Citadel. It was rather sudden but the child, having bumped into a wall without looking, accidentally broke the stick. Although it resulted in him crying, Varr saw it as inspiration.

"Ehhh, I have brittle bone disease."

"Ouch, that's tough man. You can still be a pilot, though. I don't think the Turian military would've let you off that easily." The man laughed, slightly raising his rifle after that jab at the military.

"Well, you see I had this Citadel internship-"

"You're one of _those_ people?"

"I'm not much good with guns or spaceships."

"Neither am I, but I still marched in Utha against the rebels. Can't believe the Turians let you get out of it. In Kar'shan even restaurants would refuse to serve a traitor."

"Traitor?" Varr let out a small chuckle. "Trust me, I did the Turians a favour by not joining."

"You could've at least pretended. No need to actually go into battle. I heard with the right connections you can land some cushy position in the middle of nowhere without having to fire a single gun. The name is all that matters."

"Commander Varr Magnon?" Var pondered the implications of that name for a while before solemnly concluding that there was no way in whatever afterlife present would he ever agree to something so tacky. "No that has a horrible ring to it."

"The women seem to like it."

"Regardless…"

Suddenly the elevator, which had been taking an abnormal amount of time to arrive at its location, opened, revealing the hangar that housed a massive dreadnought.

"We'll rendez-vous with the other ships in an hour near the relay, then we'll head to 314." Said the Batarian. "Make sure you salute the Admiral on board, you don't want to give off the impression you're uncooperative."

Varr silently approached the doors of the dreadnought, which was rather fork-shaped with a large cannon plastered on its centre. The way the canon was built, this monstrosity looked like a franksenstinian amalgamation than an actual ship. It seemed as if this was some poor civilian ship that was forced into service rather than something built out of scratch. The hull was smooth, with traditional Turian markings. It had various windows, which gave it an unquestionable cultural aesthetic appeal. However, there was a large cannon which seemed to be very improperly melded into the hull right in the front. He guessed that various parts of the ship open and close to reveal the rest of the arsenal this giant ship possessed, but he would rather see it for himself. Regardless, if that cannon was removed, this dreadnought would make for an excellent cruise-ship.

Either way, as Varr was being decontaminated alongside his Batarian companion, the one thing he could think of was whether they at least offered some form of entertainment for this 2-day journey. Last time he was on a military ship and repairs had to be made, the marines did a production of a famous Salarian musical, _The Life of the Wicked,_ out of sheer boredom. The admiral heard muffled music coming from the main hall but was none the wiser of what his soldiers did in their spare time. Varr could not help thinking how pedestrian that must've been.


	3. When you start a galactic war

"Call the damned French ships." Yelled an admiral. He, alongside the rest of the people in the room, all noticeably of asian descent, were dressed in a military manner of white navy uniform, with a large yellow braid stretching from their shoulders to chest. Some of the older officers were decorated with an abnormal amount of medals. Although, the admiral who stood upon the podium overlooking his subordinates typing away frantically at monitors was distinctly older than everyone else in the room, with various wrinkles dotting his face. Those wrinkles now set the giant screen in front of them, with hazy visuals of what seemed to be a space fleet, as their new victim. The room was a rectangular structure, with the entrance leading directly to the infamous 'commanders' podium', which housed the high Admiral's personal computer.

Of course, no one had interest it was this Admiral's computer specifically, rather because it was an Admiral-level computer, which meant it had access to nuclear launch codes. Two stairways diverged on both sides of this podium, leading to various seats and individuals on their computers, attempting to make sense of the small fleet lazily appearing and disappearing in a sea of static on the giant screen plastered over the wall. The room had, of course, been lined with a reflective metallic finish for this very reason. Although this made cleaning easier, the reason for this was likely due to the infamous french interception of army commands in the Battle of Hanoi, which resulted in the Japanese investing unusual amounts of money in ECM/ECCM technology.

"Sir, this may not be a European vessel. We can't recognise its energy signature." One of the younger men said, turning his head to face the commander.

"Yes, because aliens speak French? That's the last thing these idiots need. There's no bigger ego boost that telling them that God and the entire universe happen to talk like them too."

"But there's almost nothing in common with any previous human models-"

"Human models?" snorted the admiral. "It's probably that new Prototype they've been bragging about unveiling lately. This isn't the first time ship design changed drastically might I remind you."

"Sir, if it truly is a French ship, then its presence in Shanxi space is almost a declaration of war"

"I know, which is why I'm asking you to call them!" Snapped the older gentleman. It seemed to shut the young man up and he quickly hunched a little to position his mouth close to a microphone near his monitor.

"Attention approaching ship, you are in Shanxi space. Any further movement would be in violation of the Treaty of Saigon. If you are in need of assistance our personnel can attend to you in the Gas Giant moon, Amaterasu."

Several minutes passed. No reply. The tension on everyone's face was becoming more pronounced.

"Sir, the static is abnormal. It seems they're trying to mess with our system"

"And failing" Replied the admiral. "Our ECCM is more than enough to prevent another disaster like Indochina."

"The sub-viceroy from Madagascar!" Suddenly proclaimed the admiral. "Call him! He should know all about this. In the meantime alert Tokyo. Though, if this was a full-scale war we would've heard the DEFCON order by now."

Almost immediately, a large group of armed guards went rushing past the door, slightly causing the admiral's cape to flutter around due to the sheer speed they had ran out. Suffice to say, his soldiers weren't particularly calm at the prospect of war with France. The next hour was marred in absolute silence with the exception of the occasional communication attempts with the ships.

"Unknown ships, further approach constitutes military action between the French Union and the Empire of Japan. We will be forced to engage if your ships approach 1 AU of Shanxi."

"I repeat, if you are in need of medical assistance of any kind please dock by Amaterasu. Otherwise turn back."

In response, all the ships did was simply replay _La Marseillaise_.

"What do they think they're going to accomplish with this charade? Our defences are more than adequate to take out that Dreadnought." Said the admiral.

"I don't know, this new model could be something revolutionary."

"Listen corporal, no matter how revolutionary something is, a single _Yokai_ warhead and it's done for."

"Excuse me!" A sound could be heard nearby. Muffled, but getting clearer by the second. "Don't manhandle me like this, I'm a diplomat!" Afterwards, Clovis was thrust into the room with his, rather small, suit-case with a family crest plastered over it.

"Admiral, what is the meaning of this? Do you wish to provoke a diplomatic incident?"

"Me? Perhaps you could explain why your people and a dreadnought are on their way to Shanxi?"

Clovis was silent. He eyed the ships shown on the massive monitor for a while before proclaiming that he had no clue what those were.

"They're playing _La Marseillaise_ , for Goodness sake!" Yelled out one of the lower ranking officers. He was promptly silenced by an armada of glares from the higher-ups.

"How should I know?! These don't even look like human designs, let alone French ones!" Clovis said, looking down from the rails on the podium to make eye-contact with the insubordinate subordinate.

"Sir, they've passed Amaterasu. They're not docking…Should we deploy the garrison?"

Clovis grabbed his phone and immediately dialled a number.

"Jean? Yes, it's me. There are some strange ships, a dreadnought and a couple of frigate-class ones headed towards Shanxi. They keep playing the national anthem. Are you sure? Go ask Francois then. Listen Jean, I'm looking at it right now. Is there anything out of the ordinary back on Earth?"

As this idiotic conversation went on, the admiral ordered an intercept team to launch in thirty minutes.

"Admiral, the viceroy says he doesnt know about any ships in Shanxi" Said Clovis.

The Admiral ignored Clovis for a while, checking his main computer. He read and re-read the message on his PC a dozen times before finally responding.

"High Command says we're allowed to engage." The Admiral said rather jubilantly. "If even the viceroys aren't aware of this operation then we might've caught a war before it started."

"You can't engage with a non-hostile force for no reason!"

"Monsieur Clovis, may I remind you that so long as you're in this control room you remain here as an observer. Meaning you show me absolute respect, understood?"

Clovis rolled his eyes. In either case, it seemed that the commander was much too happy he was allowed to shoot, at least for Clovis' liking anyways.

"You're going to start a war for no reason! They could be injured, or unable to communicate, or captured or, or-"

"Intercept team arriving in a few minutes, sir."

Clovis was growing increasingly frustrated. Despite his title of sub-viceroy, he was of little use most of the time. However, this time, he can at least prevent a war. Moving towards the admiral, Clovis grabbed his shirt and attempted one final attempt at rationalisation before the gaurds pulled him away.

"You can avoid this! Pull them back! If it's the Shanxi Garrison they'll kill those ships!"

It took the gaurds a rather short amount of time, but Clovis was forced out of the control room. At the same time, about two dozen ships or so launched from the home planet. Most of them were almost the size of the largest frigate in the unidentified fleet, but were easily eclipsed by the Dreadnought. The ships, of course, were lost in the vast emptiness of space. They seemed small and insignificant compared to the massive planet from which they emerged, as their acceleration from their space-port almost made them seem like ants. Of course, these ships are deceptively simple; their significance is hidden by their size. If anything, these ships would change the course of human and citadel history, being the first to initiate contact with an alien civilisation. Or so the history books proudly proclaim.

"Commander, alien ships are approaching us." Announced a Turian on board the Dreadnought. "They seem to be heavily armed Frigates-class ships."

There was a grunt within the entire vessel. It was a rather unique design for a Turian ship. The CIC was located firmly in the helm, with a large table surrounded by various monitors in the middle of this ship. This table surrounded a holographic display of the galaxy, with major landmarks dotting the region. On it, the admiral and his higher officers shouted orders to their pilots, whilst Varr remained standing near the emergency escape doors. He was paranoid, admittedly. He hated the military and years of watching Turian ambush movies on the unification war made him susceptible to the infamous adage that 'anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.'. Many Turians called him out on it, with even the civilians on the ship laughing at him in the CIC and admiral table. He couldn't care less, however, and remained firmly fixed near the emergency escape doors. Mama didn't raise no fool.

"They must think we're hostile. Halt movement and prepare for contact." Answered the Turian commander, suddenly standing. The holographic image of the galaxy in the centre of the table switched to that of visual feed regarding the alien vessels. Their design was…astonishing to say the least. They were shaped in a very pronounced oval manner. There were various rectangles that dotted the ships, which the admiral assumed it located some of the weaponry and escape crafts. One weapon which was blatantly visible, however, was the main guns, located primarily in the sides of the ship. Turians, however, build space-ships similar to fighter pilots. This allowed them greater manoeuvrability. These ships looked as if they were ready to set sail!

"In retrospect, perhaps taking a Dreadnought and frigates to first contact was a bad idea."

"I'm sorry, do I hear civilians talking on a military ship?" replied the commander, slightly turning his head to glare at the unsuspecting Varr only to turn back to his CIC heads. "Do we have the slightest clue what they've been saying?"

Admittedly, Varr could never resist a good sarcastic jab and, for the most part, he came off as either rude or inappropriate. Though, in his defense, this commander deserved any hostility that came his way.

Within minutes a large group of vessels besieged the Council team.

"Sir, I don't think they have capable comm-buoy networks sufficient for two-way communication."

The Council had assumed, rightly so, that any species using mass effect technology, would also be capable of utilising comm-buoys, which relied primarily on photon-based communication. The radio system was discarded years ago for being too easy to intercept and, after having its notorious unreliability plastered in the face of history during a Turian slaver raid, it was almost universally ignored by all Citadel species. As such, the only reason the Citadel managed to tune in to the radio waves these aliens broadcasted was due to keeper-based prothean technology, which registered millions and millions of radio-frequency combinations which can be utilised by an emergency broadcast network. The Council itself did not have access to the technology, rather only the button to activate it. As such, it seems that the first contact team was woefully unprepared with their rough radio-system which was scrapped together at the last moment.

Almost immediately, the voice of one of the aliens resounded across the Turian dreadnought, and the hint of anger mixed in with paranoia seemed rather acute.

"Heh, if I didn't know any better I'd say these aliens are about to kill us" Varr quietly said, half-laughing at his own statement.

"Turn off the engines of the auxiliary ships!" Yelled the admiral. "Can we send them a physical package?"

His question was met with various odd and somewhat frightened looks. There was complete silence before one of the helmsmen answered.

"Sir, what if they become hostile when we try and send something out of the airlocks?"

The admiral stayed silent, pondering the formation of the ships that besieged him. They halted their movements and formed a perfect circle around the contact team.

"Doesn't matter, do it anyways."

Even the more laid-back members of the crew found it difficult to speak at this point. The alien vessels seemed cold and unmoving.

"Play the song again!"

It was at this point, that one of the pilots of the frigates in the Japanese navy, had grown tired. He had gritted his teeth long enough as those Frenchmen continued to ridicule them. They were trespassing, there's no way in hell he'd let them make a mockery of his nation.

 _"Allons enfant de la patrie, le jour de glorie est arrive!"_

Suddenly, a message popped up on his pilot screen. It read:

SHIPS ATTEMPTING TO DISRUPT COMMUNICATIONS. SHOOT AT FIRST SIGN OF HOSTILITY.

He was silent before, suddenly, an object was fired from the ship. No one had time to register what was happening before one bright flash came out of the Japanese siege-lines. It was moments until the entire region of space was engulfed in a bright ball of fire.

* * *

 **Hello! So I've actually written down a rather large first chapter, but realised I had to break it apart into smaller ones. Basically I'm just working on the transitions between the chapter most of the time, so I guess I can update a bit regularly. Please tell me what you think!**


	4. When the price of medi-gel goes up

"Hideyoshi!" Yelled out a young man in response to the entrance of his friend. The house, very oddly decorated in a westernised manner, had nevertheless retained its distinctly eastern element in the small shoe compartment that one places their footwear in as they enter. This sign of respect was apparently something Hideyoshi had forgotten in his rush.

"It wasn't French! They shot down aliens!"

There was a moment of silence, before a disbelieving and slightly sarcastic "…what?" exited the mouth of his friend. Who, thankfully, was sitting down as he was being told this.

"Arata, I swear. They're keeping a tight lid on it, but apparently they shot down some alien race. They're bringing the wreckage and the survivors here!"

"That's…"

"It gets worse. These aliens took down the Shanxi garrison! They had to deploy part of the combined fleet to bring them down."

At this point, Arata had begun to have trouble breathing. Hideyoshi picked up on it, and quickly rushed to help his friend, slowly rubbing his arm in a failed attempt to comfort him. After that clearly had no affect, he opted for a more verbal approach.

"Relax. It's not confirmed, but they might deploy the Yamato here."

"What?!" It seemed that the young man had forgotten his worries as he jumped out of his seat, pushing it back with such ferocity that it hit the unfortunately placed bookshelf behind him. "They can't move it away from Earth! Imagine what they'd say about us!"

"The Yamato is just one ship"

"Like hell it is!"

"Don't be naive. We can't continue this charade forever. Sooner or later we were going to have to remove it. It was making the situation back in the homeland too tense to do us any good"

"We're going to have to tell everyone. I'm leaving." As Arata was exiting, his friend grabbed him by the arm, silently glaring at him, the height difference between the two more pronounced.

"If you do that the Kempeitai will arrest you."

"Why on Earth-"

"Think for once. How do you think it'll look to the rest of the world if Japan announces the Shanxi garrison was burnt to a crisp? Even worse, imagine how it would look if Japan made violent contact with an alien civilisation as human representatives?"

"I don't see your point."

"If we're going to tell them we made contact, we can't admit to any losses. If this results in a war with an alien race-"

"What do you think is gonna happen?" Hideyoshi let go of his friends arm and shook his head.

"The rest of the world will view as as weak barbarians. If it goes on, then even our alliance with the British will…" He trailed off, leaving behind a vast sea of possibilities.

"Would they?"

"I have no doubt. The Admiralty really dug themselves deep here. If they don't handle the survivors and witnesses harshly then we might have a war on our hands."

"We can't just stay here then!"

"We can't go either. They shut down the spaceport an hour ago." Arata's eyes widened. The spaceport was practically 10 minutes from their home. Ironically, he had always joked that he picked his dorm-room because it was one of the best places to be in case of war.

"Well, what about this alien race? How big a threat are they?"

"They have no idea, from what I understand. Their ships seem to have astonishingly better shielding, but other than that their firepower seems to equal our own. Their speed and manoeuvrability were rather disappointing, however."

"We can beat them. With the Yamato, at least."

Hideyoshi stayed silent. For once, he doubted it. The Yamato is a formidable ship in its own right, easily capable of besting even a fleet of ships in combat. However, under the weight of a European force..Hell, a Russian-French war alone would drive both the Yamato and the combined fleets to ruin, if not worse. Then you'd have to factor in whatever these aliens could dish out and suddenly the odds were not looking good.

"We should pack." Hideyoshi finally said,

"But if the space-port is-"

"Nonetheless, let's just pack. I'll head to the shops for supplies, you gather whatever items of value you can find."

The two boys nodded to each other. Arata had jumped to the second flour, frantically looking for their travelling cases. His room seemed to a traitor to the houses' western style. It was decorated in a clearly traditional Japanese fashion, completed with the sliding doors and everything. Directly besides it, lay the entrance to Hideyoshi's room, which was, in his opinion, tainted with French opera posters and American movies. The doors alone spoke a lot of their individual tastes, as Hideyoshi, instead of a sliding one, had a westernised door marked with an antique doorknob from one of the Romanovs. Of course, this showed that Hideyoshi had a clutter problem. On one side of the room, near the balcony, one could see the various western instruments dot the floor. On the other side, there was a small enclave which contained a desk and his computer. However, that entire side was plastered with those god forsaken posters and bisque dolls which, for some odd reason, Hideyoshi enjoyed collecting. In the centre lay his bed, facing a giant television screen. It was due to this arrangement that Hideyoshi had asked Arata to place some of his stuff (particularly suitcases) in his room.

Arata could never understand how one could live in such a messed up style. He preferred some organization. His room was very neatly decorated. No clutter, no problem. However, it took some energy for him to find the giant suitcases, which had been conveniently buried in the far end of the closet, and even more energy to move them as they had been filed with books and papers from their high school days.

He managed to locate several of the most important items in case of an emergency; a phone, a personal computer and communicator, towels, changes of clothes, any items of monetary value, some survival kits, and any memorabilia which had sentimental value and could be taken.

Meanwhile, Hideyoshi was running towards the local shop. He passed by several villagers, many of them waving at him as they went about their mundane pedestrian routines, completely ignorant of the giant disaster in the skies. One of them had spent four minutes lecturing her son over running too fast. Admittedly, Hideyoshi could not help slightly chuckle at that sight.

The streets were very clearly divided. On one end, the traditional westernised style lay on the one side of the street. The Japanese style, which had been attempting to make a resurgence, dominated the other. At the juncture a block away, however, lay the local shop that was run by a Dutch businessman. Sebastien-something. He was responsible for the import of German medi-gel into the village, which made him easily the most important man in town.

As he entered, being treated by the calm, friendly demeanour of his Dutch friend, he couldn't help but wonder. How would the Dutch react if they found out this man, a son of a high-ranking nobleman in Amsterdam, were to die because the Japanese declared war on an alien civilisation? Considering the limited Dutch navy present around Japanese borders, both at home and abroad, he doubted militarily they could harm them. However, if they were to place sanctions then things would be different. The Japanese relied heavily on trade from Hildegard, the Dutch garden world, for raw materials. If it was lost then there'd be no more-

"Medigel, Hideyoshi?"

Hideyoshi jerked his head to see the brown-haired man raise a couple compressed containers of a yellowish liquid. He nodded frantically before making his way to the outdoors section.

"The local hospital is going to run out of this stuff at the rate you're buying. You and Arata planning a hiking trip? Somewhere in the hills?" Questioned the shop-owner, slightly raising his head to look over the canned-food isle to see the man he was addressing. In response, however, Hideyoshi had mumbled something incoherently which, to the unaided ear, may have sounded like a confirmation.

"Say, where did you tell me you were from again? Nara?"

"Tokyo." Hideyoshi announced, digging through the survival kits and canned food for some equipment. In response, the shop-owned seemed impressed.

"Tokyo? My. I've always wanted to go. Never had the time."

"Aren't you nobility?"

"Yeah, but you know how us Dutchmen are. Give us an hour and we'd turn it into a week. Time has never been kind to me."

"Shanxi is expected to rival Hildegard at the rate they're finding raw materials and Element Zero reserves. Don't be surprised if your property here becomes prime real-estate and some Japanese businessman invites you to Tokyo to negotiate buying it" As his friend was chuckling at the prospect, muttering something on along the lines of being like one of those old pioneers, it hit him; there was nothing that suggested any of them were going to live through these next few weeks. Whatever happened, there still loomed the threat of war, ever-vigilant for its next prey.

"Say, Sebastien, you know some people within the French government, right?" Sebastien looked dumb-founded.

"Not really, just the sub-viceroy of Madagascar."

Hideyoshi raised a brow.

"A sub-viceroy? That's impressive."

"I wouldn't think so. The French use the sub-viceroy position to groom people they want to be the next-viceroys. Having no experience isn't simply fine, it's a requirement."

"Well, out of curiosity, do you think the French are going to ease up anytime soon?"

"Sebastien looked into the distance for a second, silently pondering that question. He had very lazy eyes, almost to the point where he seemed to be half-asleep most of the time.

"It's been years since Indochina, but I imagine they're gonna be in a good mood since the British renounced claim to that new garden world. It's a bit too close to some of the Japanese systems, making war unprofitable"

"You think that'd stop them? Profit?" Hideyoshi, admittedly, found profit a bit of a ludicrous deterrent.

"Of course! If war breaks out with France Britain will have to join. If Britain joins the low-countries will be dragged into it, forcing the Germans. and no doubt eventually the Russians, to get involved. If that happens then all the worlds' trade routes barring ones in the American systems would shut down. It'd be a massive economic meltdown."

"That…doesn't really make me feel much better."

"All I'm saying is, the French aren't stupid enough to risk everything because they've got an itch to scratch."

"Since when was this an question of logic?"

"No one declares war for fun. Not even us." Sebastien winked at him, causing a flood of awkwardness to ripple through the conversation. Admittedly, Hideyoshi did not handle race well. For the son of nobility, Sabastien had remarkably little interest in any nationalistic affairs. If anything, he cussed at his people more than the Japanese did. Yet, that never did stop Hideyoshi from watching his tongue around him. He particularly tended to avoid matters of politics with Europeans because they, much like Arata, tended to get far too passionate to act normally around. Even for ones that seemed normal and open-minded, all it took is one trigger word to get them to slip into racial slurs.

"Well, either way, have you considered going back to Amsterdam? At least for the weekend?"

"No. I'm tired of cities. There's too much privacy."

"Even so, maybe you should visit the family?"

"In all honesty I lost count of how many family members I had. If I were to start counting I'd be done this time next week."

"S-seriously?"

"You see, we have a great tradition in our country of getting it on like rabbits. Especially if you're wealthy."

Hideyoshi let out a laugh.

"Comments like these make me imagine you were kicked out of the Netherlands."

"The population is growing a bit too fast. I think the government would be happy kicking people out."

"I thought immigration rates to Hildegard had been growing?"

"Yeah, but Hildegard is pretty much full as well. Even worse, there are more people being born than there are people dying or immigrating by a rather large margin."

"How's Hildegard full? Whats' its current population? Three to four billion?"

"Welcome to the 22nd century!" Chimed Sebastien. "Hildegard's well into five billion."

Hideyoshi looked up from his search from some blankets and survival gears, staring eyes wide-open at the clerk. "Amazing! What's the government going to do?"

Sebastien paused for a minute before answering.

"Well, I imagine they're going to be negotiating for a new garden world sometime soon. The Russians are looking to strengthen their relationship with Western Europe, so I imagine they might be handing one of their more underdeveloped worlds."

"Is there part of Russia that's not underdeveloped?" Retorted Hideyoshi.

"You've never seen Moscow, have you?"

"It's one city. As regrettable as it maybe Russia's falling apart. This should be readily apparent."

Sebastien couldn't help but disagree, as one could tell by the fussed brow that marked his forehead.

"I don't know. An economic rut doesn't necessarily mean collapse."

"When you have a population of 11 billion scattered across dozens of planets and no infrastructure to support half of them, it probably will."

* * *

Once Varr had awakened, he saw himself being carried off in his pressurised capsule on a ship. Near surrounded by him were two turianoid-shaped aliens in armour. His escape pod, although large enough to contain a couple days' supply of air and supplies, nevertheless did not permit anyone from the outside from observing him. This meant that, whilst he had a good view of the armoured guards and the rather refined decorative nature of the ship he was placed in, the aliens probably had no idea what was in this capsule, and instead they may have just brought it with them in an attempt to study Turian technology. Would they kill him if they found out the only technology this capsule contained was a soda dispenser? Regardless, Varr seemed rather calm. It may have been due to the alien ships' interior. It was decorated in such a regal fashion, with massive portraits of the aliens drawn to such life-like accuracy and giant pots of plants elegantly laid out in patterns. On the ground lay a checkered floor, made with a very smooth and very reflective material that did not seem to be metallic. He was surprised their cargo-holds were this well-built.

No…they wouldn't put mere cargo in a room this elegant.

He could then see a man approaching him, alongside an armada of similarly dressed aliens, who had come out of the doors on the sides. He had what seemed to be an indigenous weapon; a sharpened metallic blade with a handle which, for some unnerving reason, he had been taking out of his holster. The man seemed old, dressed in a white outfit with various medals dotting his armour. Varr was too frightened to move. Every step the man took gave birth to a million possibilities.

First he was moving rather quickly, which meant the man must be in a hurry to do something. And hurry did not translate to 'high survival outcome' during first contact.

Then he stuttered a bit, and looked to his associates. All of whom merely returned his gaze with dark indifference. The five men behind this man muttered something incomprehensible, and the guards began to look away.

As he unsheathed his weapon, his hand shaking more and more by the second, Varr realised what was going on. The men behind him were looking at him, glaring at him, expecting him to do something.

Within seconds, all that could be seen was a red liquid.

* * *

Hello! So thanks a lot for reading the story. I'm going to try and focus a bit on the inter-political human relations. For one, this story is supposed to be the world war in a futuristic setting. This means that humans are still struggling with concepts like authoritarianism, racism, sexism, and, more importantly, imperial colonialism. The conflicts between the nations of Earth should reflect the pre-war conflicts in the 19th and 20th centuries. For example, the British-Japanese alliance against the Russians, or the Meji restoration as a reactionary movement against European conquests, are essentially present with a few alterations. I guess what i want to capture is that depite them being humans, the lack of a world war means that their concepts of 'nations' 'race' and 'empire' is so drastically different from our own. It also means a unified organisation such as the League of Nations or the United Nations was not formed, so most human governments are essentially independent nation-states.

Either way, tell me what you think. I really enjoy writing this, but I'm still new. I'd appreciate any constructive criticism you may have!


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